


Kiss the Scars You Made

by fightthefry



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Abuse, M/M, PTSD, Triggers, mental health
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2019-09-16 09:47:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 18,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16951713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fightthefry/pseuds/fightthefry
Summary: Touched by chaos at the tender age of twelve, now adult Dipper Pines finds himself pacing the harsh stone of his cell; trapped. But, what happens when said chaos is trapped with him?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Wattpad at fightthefry!
> 
> Please leave comments, it helps to motivate me to write more! Kudos are appreciated!

I can't see. At least, I think I can't see. It's hard to tell, without my glasses. If I could have had my glasses then I can reinforce the theory of a blindfold over my eyes, covering my nose, tickling my cheeks. I can not state it as a fact that my eyes are covered with cloth, and that the blackness I saw is not caused by my own consciousness. But, since they are gone, I can not say for sure.   
My wrists; raw and cut from fighting the corded restraints that bind me. I imagine my ear twisting like a dog's, or a cat's, my brain reverting to it's childlike manner, as I strain to listen for the slightest of sounds. Alas, nothing. Nothing but the ominous drips of water and the sickening feeling of eyes on mine, but, as mentioned previously, I am not be sure of my surroundings.   
My shoes are tighter, and my sleeves are shorter. They are ripped; there was a struggle. But I digress, it was I who had lost - as shown by my current situation. I suspect that my feet have swelled; my face stinging and larger with the blow I had sustained across my temple. In fact, I am aware now of the beads of sweat on my forehead, mixing with the sticky blood that is currently escaping me.   
There.   
There it is again.   
That feeling.   
I twist my neck, which hurt, into the blackness. I have no proof, no noise or vision. Just... intuition. Yes, intuition and intelligence. So, with absolute certainty, I can say there is at least a possibility that someone is watching me.   
However slim, or large, that possibility may be.   
"Hello?" I call, my throat hoarse and dry, my tongue moving in frantic motion as I try to retain the little moisture left inside. What comes out of my mouth, however, is starkly audible, and it should, in theory, warrant a vocal response. But all that comes of it is the shifting of sheets and my own paranoia.   
I swallow.  
"Please help me," I whisper. All my strength must be preoccupied, but with what, I can not say. It's as if it had shrunken away, into some deep pit inside me. I snort at the irony, feeling the price of my joy as my head begins to ache immensely.   
I half suspect someone to jump to the rescue. For a handsome fellow in shining armour to lift me over his shoulder, but suspect probably isn't the right word. No... wish. I half wish that I am to be saved, but the rational part of me screams otherwise.   
However, ration must be thrown away, as harshly and sudden as the blindfold is from my eyes. Ah! So It was a blindfold. I can see now, shapes, light, a blurred man. The blackness is gone.   
I blink away the tears that have formed in the corners of my eyes, the exposure to the light cursing them to act up. My brow furrows in concentration as I try to make sense of my surroundings.   
However, it is rather hard to, since there's someone blocking my view.   
"Hello?" I repeat, but it is more of a question. There is no animosity, nor strength there, and my once timid nature creeps out again.   
No answer... but there is action.   
The blurred man slides something up the bridge of my nose, his face slowly coming into focus as I blink into the smudged glass.   
He is my age, perhaps older, his face sharp but his eyes intuitive, curious. His hair isn't short, nor long, and once it had been shaved at the sides, I suspect. But now, the clipped locks have grown, so that no skin was visible above the ears. On his head, fluffy locks of blond curl around, dust laying on the tips. On his cheeks lay a splattering of freckles, lighter than its background, stopping at his defined cheekbones. His skin is warm, the colour reminding me of a beautiful gemstone I had once owned. What is it... ah yes! Tiger's eye.   
And speaking of eyes, his are piercing. Shattered like glass, the blue orbs are the most omnipresent of all of his aspects. I could see the pain, the laughter behind them. In fact, it almost seemed like the two are intertwined.   
"Thank you," I breath, steaming up my glasses, the familiar sensation so homely that I almost forget where I am.   
The man studies me, his eyes narrow and his mouth pursed slightly. He doesn't answer.   
"Who are you?" I ask, my voice breaking and cracking as I do so. He doesn't move.   
So I sit, still bound, watching him as he watches me, blue on brown.   
It makes my throat itch, and dry as he zeroes in on me. Something about him, it's all too familiar, yet so foreign. And, with the distant recognition in his eyes, I guess that I'm not too far off.   
I sigh, and turn away at last, pulling at my restraints.   
And then they fall loose, nimble fingers working at the knots.   
He had been so swift, I didn't even seen him.   
I bring my hands out, wriggling my fingers against the stale air. I smile, for the first time since I had awoken, and laughed. It's cold, and nipping, and there is no joy present. But it is there, and it seems to drive away the shadows, at least for one second. I stand up, my legs numb and wobbling.   
Still smiling, I hold out my hand to the blond.   
"I'm Dipper," I say, stretching my fingers towards him.  
He stares at me for a moment longer, before a sideways smile appears on his face, unsure and almost unseen. He clasps my hand.  
"William."


	2. Chapter 2

"Where are we?" Dipper asks, eyes unfocused and mouth open slightly as he stares to the ceiling. I stare at him, at the stray hair that came across his ear, or the shadow of stubble across his jawline. Somewhere... I've seen him. I don't know where, or when, or how. In fact, I don't know anything. I have no recollection of anything, my memories limited to when I woke, blindfolded in a chair, a card in my pocket with my name, and age, and other bits scrawled in blue ink.   
But... something about him... prickles at my mind.   
"William?"  
Oh yeah.   
"Where are we?" Dipper repeats, and I follow his gaze up to the stone ceiling.   
"Honestly," I reply, my voice low and solemn, "I don't know."   
Dipper looks away, a forlorn look on his face, and I close my eyes, to stop myself from falling into the same hole he was dug into. So broken, so hopeless. His eyes shine with swimming memories, wistful longing tearing at his skin as he reminisces on something, something nice and warm and welcoming. Something that is void here.   
I breath, ragged and sudden, causing him to look over my way. I cough away my anxiety and play a smile on my lips.   
"Where are you from, Dipper?" I ask, hoping my voice would stay level and calm. He's like a cat, one wrong move and he'd scatter.   
"Piedmont, California," he answers, the longing in his face softening into a scream, "but these past few years I've been studying with my Grunkle Ford in Gravity Falls."  
I laugh suddenly, "what's a Grunkle?"  
Dipper blushes slightly, clearing his throat to hide his embarrassment. My cheeks tint with regret, and my brow's hold hands as I bring them together in guilt.  
"Great Uncle. We shortened it," Dipper clarifies, and I nod my head along with his words. His voice is calming, soft spoken and articulated. He sounds like an old book.  
I don't question the 'we'.   
Dipper looks at me, a question on his tongue but restraint pulling it back. He's fighting, battling. It's quite interesting to watch.   
Curiosity beat sense, I'm afraid.   
"How long have you been here, William?"   
I smile, small and short, at the brunet sat patiently in front of me. He doesn't know what he is doing, does he?  
"You can call me Will, you know," I answer at last, turning my head away from him. It had been too long, too long since I have seen anything outside these walls. At least, I assume. I can't remember, but I know it is too long. It is as if something is shouting from my chest, yelling at me to remember myself, to remember places, people, Dipper. But, as with every other time, I don't listen. I can't. I am deaf to it.   
The grey stone of the cell shines with condensation, and there is a simple barred window, leading into a beautiful view of a brick wall; it is blocked off. The floor is darker and smoother, worn away by the soles of my feet many a week ago. A small light shines from the ceiling, but it isn't connected to any power mains - I'd checked. It is lit by another force, something far more sinister, complex, human. Or perhaps... it isn't human at all.   
I turn back to Dipper, to see his face interrogative. He is trying to figure me out.   
Good luck with that, Dip.   
I've been trying to do that for a while now. It hasn't worked.   
"How does this place work?" Dipper asks, questioning again. I raise an eyebrow.   
"What do you mean?"   
Dipper sighs, "I mean, when do we get food, etc..." He looks at me for an answer.   
"Sometimes I get food. Sometimes I don't. Same with water, and heating. It can be scorching, or so cold that you can lick the frozen water off the walls. There is no consistency," I answer, spitting the words as they come out my mouth.   
Dipper's eyes are large, like a deer caught in headlights.   
"Oh," he whispers, barely a noise amongst the sigh of dread.   
I feel bad.   
Again.  
It's almost becoming a habit now, showing weakness. I shouldn't encourage it, but yet I do, and feed it more than it need to live, until it becomes fat and needy and spoilt.  
"It'll be okay," I assure, despite myself, but even I'm sure. And I am always sure.   
Something doesn't add up.   
"Will?" Dipper pipes up again, and I almost groan. Going from utter silence to noise is... a process. Not one I do well with, either.   
"Tell me about yourself."  
Great... great.  
"Uhhh, well, umm," I articulate, fumbling around in my pocket to grasp hold of my identity.   
"It's okay if you don't want to say anything!" Dipper rushes, his voice tripping over his legs and his tongue wagging at the floor.   
"No, no, umm..." I bring out the card. It is bent, and broken, and crinkled, and yet I hand it to him, my hand shaking as I do.   
His eyes scanned the scrawl.   
"William Cifier, 20, male," he reads, his eyes squinting.   
"Is that it?" He asks, and I bite my cheek. I'm sure he hadn't meant to be so rude, it is only a little bit of information. I had had the same reaction when I had first read it.   
"You know as much as me," I admit, bringing my knees closer in to my body. Dipper's eyes widen, and he stares at me, the card loosely hanging in his hand. I can see the pity flash across his eyes. I clench my jaw, and rise.   
"Where are you going?" Dipper asks.  
"Sleep," I say simply, curling up in the corner behind me. No blanket, no pillow. But I am used to it.   
I close my eyes, black overcoming me, slipping into dreams.


	3. Chapter 3

He is odd, there's no doubt about it. Perhaps it is the way that he looks at me, as if he is able to see through me, or whether it be the way he appears, Will is odd. I mean no disrespect to him however, I am merely stating a fact. Will is odd, and there is no doubt about it.   
Or, maybe, it could be the fact that something about him emanates a sense of panic, a sense of danger. William's like a decorative knife, pretty, intricate, yet deadly. Yes, I am sure of it. But, somehow, I don't care.   
I look over to his figure, shadows enveloping his body and covering all except the mop of blond that peaked from under his arms. He is asleep, lost to the world.  
He is odd, yes, I think I've emphasised that point enough. He talks, but not a lot, but enough.   
Enough to make me curious.   
I look around, properly taking in my surroundings for the first time. There are no beds, candles, nothing. A few thin sheets - like an animal cage.   
I huff, sitting down in the chair, feeling my back pocket and praying that my captor hasn't taken it.   
I smile as I bring out a small photograph, a girl and a boy in the centre, their smiles enough to break through the fourth wall behind the laminate.   
Her smile, braces gone at last, bright and blinding at the forefront of the photo, donned in an outfit of pinks, her skirt lapping at her knees as she jumps into her brother as the pin pops.   
Her brother, well he wears a grin nowhere near as big as his sister's, but joy in it nonetheless. He is taller, finally, and has his elbow on her shoulder. He wears nothing but a t-shirt and shorts - plain, but it has worked for him for years. They are grown, not fully, but they were older and wiser and have moved on. Older, wiser. They have learned to hide the scars of their past.   
The picture seems to move as I turn it around, the trees shifting and the expressions twitching. But, they aren't.   
I look at the photo and sigh, nostalgia drugging me senseless.   
It would be two years ago now, that this photo was taken. Two years later, and neither one of the Pines twins are smiling.   
One, in her room, throwing things and pulling at her hair as she slowly cries herself to sleep.   
The other; trapped. No escape.   
I put the photo back in my pocket, wiping a stray tear from my cheek. I don't know why, its not like anyone would see. Will is asleep.   
Will is asleep, and how I wish I could drift off as easily. But my head spins and my heart pounds with adrenaline. So I stay awake.  
Its funny how things work isn't it? Kidnapped, drugged, beaten, and I'm not tired. Not physically anyway. Emotionally however, I am exhausted, my clock ticking overtime.   
I lay down in the adjacent corner to Will, and try desperately to fight off my thoughts and calm my breathing. But, everywhere I turn, there are nightmares. Black ones of death and destruction, red ones of violence, and blue ones of sorrow and misery; I can't escape them. I toss and twist, curl and furl, spat and splutter, but to no prevail.   
"I know how you feel," a voice says, and I shoot up, blood rushing to my head and causing nausea to overcome me.   
"Do you?" I ask him, the glow of his hair barely visible in the dim lighting. I don't mean it to come off as it did. I see his head dip.  
"Sorry," I mumble, scooting over to him.  
Perching myself down, we don't talk.   
We hold our breaths.  
We fiddle with our fingers.   
We don't say anything.   
But, somehow, there is a strange sense of peace upon the dastardly place. Like, the eye of a storm. Which, in itself is a weird metaphor, don't you think? I wonder, who's the storm here? Dipper - the man branded ill by psychologists, the man shunted by his own family, outcast of society, or... Will? Will - who I know nothing about, whom holds such an air of danger around him that I am sure that children would run away, but, all the same: Will - who provides clarity and calmness and kindness?   
Will is odd, there is no doubt about it. He's odd, but odd is a good thing. I'm odd. He's odd. Pretty odd.   
'Things are shaping up to be pretty odd.'  
The random lyric makes me smile, a flash of white in the blankness.   
I could feel Will staring at me, but I don't say anything. As much as I want to look back, I don't. It goes against every primal instinct of an animal to ignore a predator, or a prey.   
But, see, an old tale rings in my mind.   
'Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, Dipper.' Grunkle Ford used to say.   
Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, Dipper, and don't look a man in the eye. For, to look a man in the eye, you see him as he truly is. And that, my dear boy, can scare even the strongest of men.


	4. Chapter 4

"Oh my God," Dipper breaths, his hands spread across his mouth as he stares at the stone wall. I turn my head, unfurling my body and yawning.   
"What?" I murmur, quite naively in fact, as I didn't look. But, now that I have, I see it.   
I get up slowly, and walk over to Dipper. His eyes are brimming with tears, and he's shaking. Shaking at the paint dripping down the wall, the circles and the symbols. The star, the glasses, the tree, the triangle. It means nothing to me. But, to Dipper, it must mean something.   
He looks a mess.   
He's not just shaking now, no. His body is convulsing, his breathing is fast and his eyes are wide and pupils small. He isn't moving as he falls to the floor.   
"Dipper!" I yell, to no prevail; the man doesn't wake. He's fainted.   
I sit next to him, cross legged, looking up at the wall. It was sloppily done, and not by me, nor Dipper. Someone was there with them, at some point during the night.   
What is painted though, I had no idea. It looked satanic, in a way, or a part of the occult. Symbols within circles, circles surrounding triangles. It was familiar though, but not to me as it was to Dipper.   
As he stirs, my breath hitches. He's singing.   
"Oh, we'll meet again. Don't know where, don't know when!"  
I look at him. It's a voice not quite his own.   
"Oh I know we'll meet again some sunny day," I finish, absentmindedly, the lyrics void from my mind as soon as I sang them. Dipper racked with laughter, emotionless and cold as I sat in stunned silence. He was crying and laughing, laughing and crying, the juxtaposition causing something within me to resonate in sympathy and innate understanding.   
"Dipper," I whisper, trying to stop him. He looks to be having a fit, but he's completely conscious. I can see it in his eyes.   
"Dipper, please," I say again, sternly, and Dipper stops, abruptly, and turns away from me. I stare in horror, confused and scared, at the familiar yet alien sight of a man losing his mind.   
We sit in silence, once again. It seems a pattern now. Silence is such a strange word, because nothing can be silent. There's always something. But, in this case, I use the word to emphasise the awkwardness socially, because as I listen to Dipper's breathing slow, and soon, his laughter replace solely with tears of anguish and pain, I don't know what to say.   
"Dipper," I say softly, putting my hand on his shoulder; he jumps at the gesture. I don't know him, hell, I've barely met him. But I feel I have a duty to look after him. Anyways, he's the only one here with me.   
"Dipper, what was that?" I ask. Unsurprisingly he didn't answer.   
Standing up, I walk over to grab a sheet from the floor, and start to wrap it around Dipper's shaking shoulders.   
I sit, once again, next to the man, the man whom I knew but didn't know. The man whom is my friend, and at the same time, I he is not. I scarcely believe that it matters to begin with. He's my friend; acquaintance; whatever, now, so I must do as a friend does.   
But, friendship is a secret to me, as much as my past.   
A soft thud comes down onto my shoulder, and as I look down slightly, I see the tired head of Dipper Pines. I tense, then relax, smiling to myself.   
I won't ask. People deserve their secrets. I just wish I know mine.


	5. Chapter 5

The past few days have flown like they were grounded; meaning to say that they moved slow and painfully. Will, respectfully, has kept his distance after the incident, but I often catch his wandering and worried gaze on me every now and again.  
My hands have not stopped shaking since that day, and although I speak of it like it were not to be mentioned; here we are. Chatting freely, pretending that I am not trapped with little means of escape with a stranger who’s stare causes my heart to palpitate and my brain to scream RUN!!!   
I may have already mentioned this, I’m not sure. But it is dire and constantly tapping at my mildewed skull, my rotting brain, my dried senses.   
And, also on my mind, of course, was that day. That incident. That which we shall not name. The Voldemort, so far, of my time here. Oops! I said his name!   
I swear I’m going insane. Possibly senile, although considering my age of only 18, there is a slight issue with this conclusion.   
Anyways, what was I saying? Oh yes.   
That day replays over and over and over… until I can recite my slurred verses verbatim and laugh at the madness of it all. It honestly makes no sense, however, it must make some, since it had happened with absolute certainty. If I could not trust my own brain, at least I could trust my companion, who’s stare comes and goes as the tide, powerful and erosive but oddly calming.   
The wheel was what had caused my… episode. Yes, let’s call it that. A flash of a memory rushes through my mind. A memory of a dingy room and of twins. Old, and young, and all full of concern. An episode, they called it. So that is what I shall call it too.   
See, it is not widely known about what had happened the summer of 2012. Some may guess and theorise about the anomalies. Some may only know stories, which is ironic, considering the ‘Never Mind All That!’ law that had come into play shortly after the fact. Some, strangely, may never have even heard of the town of Gravity Falls, and when asked about its happenings can only shrug with the confidence of an American who has no clue.   
But, I knew, and I still know what happened, and it haunts me. Me, my family, and the people of that small nowhere in Oregon.   
In the summer of 2012, as it has been stated many times, a nuclear bomb was dropped on Oregon, onto a small settlement of people living their average, mundane lives. People, heard, listened, and cared not for what had really happened.   
For, you see, people are satisfied with a half of the truth, or even none of it, if the lie in question does not cause them harm. No! You shout in defence. Yes, I rebut, and here’s why.   
The world does not care. For example, we give to charity, not to help, but to feed the demon inside of us that wants to feel validated, and good. We like to feel contented, and we seem to go any lengths to achieve this goal.   
It is the same with this awful truth. People do not like to feel the anguish of others, so, to convince themselves of their wellbeing, we make up complex and simple lies to cover the obvious death and destruction caused daily.   
What a selfish world we live in, God.   
Back to the fact, in the summer of 2012, Gravity Falls was hit with a nuclear explosion. At least, that’s what they said.   
It was far worse. A dreadful and fickle truth of triangles, and circles and monsters of all kinds. I remember it clear as day, stark as the night sky.   
The sky had blackened, and reddened, and turned to many colours all at once. Reality was in reverse, as if it were a hologram switched off by the flick of a gnawed hand to a switch. The water climbed as if desperate to the sky, and the trees broke free from their roots in the earth and soared to the fiery heavens. People ran free from sanity in the streets as flying eyes turned all that breathed to stone. Spherical madness was flung through the town, and waves of weird washed over the skyline. And, as large as the clouds, a creature of flesh and magic was cackling and screeching in delight. Bill Cipher.   
The horror, the fiend! Words could not describe the equilateral god, because he was not of this world and language. He was to awful to put to writing. Powerful, hungry, manipulative, this psychopath could crawl into your dreams in his dapper glory and convince you of many lies and of many truths; you never knew.   
I too, fell victim to his tricks. Me, my sister, my uncle. All of us were fed on and cast aside in his plan for dominance and pure madness. In fact, it could be argued that I too, fell for madness as he had done in the past. My episodes? Consequences of the war. Battle scars.   
But Dipper, you ask, how is the world still intact, if there was an apocalypse?  
Well, random person, let me tell you. Me, my family, and others saved the world! Huzzah! How joyful we must feel. How triumphant and victorious the celebrations must have been.  
They were not.   
For after war, we do not shout hurray. We do not cheer, and party. We grimace and sigh, because it is known to many that the war is never truly done. So, with defeat to match the losing party, we limp home, dragging our mangled corpses behind us.   
And, we are right of course. The scars never go away; the war never truly fades into black.   
But, from a war that no one knows of, and that no one cares about, how can you create sympathy? How can you explain your mind, and its wrongs, to the average Joe who comes along, picking at your nerves in his naïve and clueless joy?  
You cannot, and so, I and many others, must suffer in silence.   
Although, it now occurs to me that whilst delving into the past, I have been neglecting a certain foe, a friend, whose eyes are on my back, almost pleading for me to talk.   
So, I turn to him, brown upon blue once again, and smile. Wonky, sideways, and certainly fake, I smile at Will. And, unlike me, he seems satisfied with my response and smiles to himself, turning back to the picturesque view of the walls.   
My smile fades, and I turn to the floor once more, my neck strained and sore hurting perfectly.


	6. Chapter 6

More of the cold I could take, more of the isolation - sure. In fact, I feel so broken that I am sure that nothing more could break me further, lest they have a giant hammer to crush me with.   
Six days. Six days since Dipper arrived and three days since he began to look pale and decayed.   
Food; scarce. Water; currently dripping down the walls.  
Nothing much more.   
I curl my arms further around my knees, my head resting on one and breathing coldness onto the other. My eyes were lidded, but I wasn't tired. I was shaking, but it was one of the better days. He probably hasn't turned the AC on, and thankfully not the heating.   
You always want the heating to come, always pray for the cold to shrink away. But in truth the heating is so much worse than the cold. In the coldness you can huddle, or breath heavily - anything to keep yourself from freezing. In the heat, you sweat and shake and spit until you try to rip your skin off, rip another layer off to keep yourself from burning in the flames.   
But now it is cold. Cold, and dry, and so piercing that I imagine us both to be skewered many times over.   
Dipper certainly looked it.   
Frail and ghostly, the veins in his hands were raised and visible to me from where I was sat. He was recognisable, and not so terrible that you couldn't look, but certainly like a drooping flower; yellowed but still beautiful. 'Twas the same with Dipper, he was still himself, but at the same time - on his last legs.   
The heavy breathing often slowed to a near halt, and often quickened to engine noise. I was happy regardless, because it meant he was alive. It was the only way of testing, in fact, where I didn't have to interact with him.   
But looking at him now, head hung and wiry arms draped on the floor beside him, discarded, I feel I have to.   
"Dipper?" I croak hoarsely, and a twitch of his head lets me know he heard.  
"What's it like? You know, outside?"   
Dipper's head moves more, slightly.   
I wait.   
His head twitches again.   
Oh.  
I sit down next to him, and the ground is its familiar coldness; its familiar hardness. But it feels different. Maybe its the slight warmth radiating from him, or the shadow that curls around him like a shroud.   
"Outside?" He whispers, his voice barely there and barely audible.   
I nod, but he doesn't look at me. It doesn't matter.   
"It is simultaneously" - his speech is slurred - "both everything this is, and everything this is not."  
Dipper sits cross-legged, and he looks like a child. He looks like a child.  
"Is it good?" I ask blindly, treading around his nerves like a child on a cracked pavement.  
A small smile, wistful and far, yet so close that it makes me warm slightly inside. But, only slightly. It's still cold.   
"Sometimes," he answered, lifting his head, his brown eyes large and bagged and clouded.   
Stolen glances at a person so frayed and tattered. Stolen glances that don't seem to be returned.   
"Like what?" I ask, desperate to see more of his smile. I can't say I'm not the slightest bit curious as to his life. I mean, I don't have one, so it's natural. Living vicariously.  
"I have a twin sister," Dipper started, and I moved my head quite abruptly. This is the closest I've ever got to his life.   
I didn't say anything.   
"She-she's called Mabel," he swallowed, and I copied, forcing down the bile that dared to come at such a progressive time.   
"Is she nice?" I ask, the social cues completely escaping me, any empathy I have focused solely on Dipper.   
"Better than nice," Dipper smiled, "she's so nice it's almost scary."  
I try to laugh, but its caught around the barbed wire in my throat. In my opinion, a lanky blond choking at your comment isn't reassuring, but Dipper seemed to get the message.   
"We were always together - twins y'know?" Dipper said, his voice scratchy. I nod, completely oblivious to what he's saying.  
The air seems to thicken, and Dipper seems to feel it too. He clears his throat - a sticky, ghastly sound - and hacks at the blockage against his will.   
I wrinkle my nose against my own, watching as his innards try to escape. Red faced but yet so pale, he coughs, and coughs, and coughs.   
He stops, his eyes watering and swollen, and stared at me for a second before turning away in finality.   
"She sounds great," I croak out, and Dipper smiles behind his grimace.   
"She is." He says, before turning away. I could almost hear the power shutting off in his brain. No more talking, he was saying to me in his mind. Why did you make me talk? He screams. I hate you! He shouts.  
Probably not. But yet again, probably.   
I don't get up, or turn away from him, or stare him directly in his sunken face. I just stay and comfort in my silence.   
I glance. He's smiling softly.  
"Mabel," he whispers, before turning away and walking to the corner.   
\--------------------  
"Dipper!" Mabel screeches from her sleep, blankets tangled around her legs as they thrash through the air, her hair splattered on her wettened pillow as if trying to crawl away from her, her face scrunched up in a nightmare. She screams, insanity rolling off her, but its alien - it isn't her own.  
"It's him!"


	7. Chapter 7

"William!"   
A woman screams. She is running, across a grassy hill that seems too picturesque to be real, surrounded by dancing clouds that swirl like hallucinations across the blue mirage that mirrors her eyes. Her skirt is long and simple, a myriad of flowers seeming to run along with her. Her shirt is baggy and the sleeves flow as she runs, a tunic style V showing the freckles splattered across her collarbone. Her hair is tightly coiled and brown like a dandelion, falling down her back in youthful joy. Her skin is the colour of dark pine, warming to look at. She is young.   
Nymph like and young, yet still so tired, she searches frantically.   
A small boy, barely old enough to be classified as a boy, is knelt over the side of a lake. A mop of blond hair waves slightly in the soft breeze as he tilts his head, waving something in his hand. Blood. A tooth.   
"Fishies, come here!" He sings, with a hint of a lisp. He waves his bloodied hand around over the surface of the water. Indistinctive shapes of white and red swim under the surface, paying him no attention. He leans further, waving his arm.  
"William!"  
His ear twitches and he turns his head.   
"Mama?" The boy - William - questions, turning his neck to far.   
He falls.   
But he is caught.   
An arm outstretched; a boy suspended in mid air in tendrils of green plants that wrap around his legs and arms. Magic. He is laughing despite his mothers distress.   
"Mama!" He giggles, and shakes in his restraints as he is let down from the edge. He runs to her. She screams.   
"What is that?" She questions in terror, and her son stares at her in confusion, his head tilted like a dog. He smiles, a bloody gap visible. Blood trickles down his jaw.  
"It's a tooth!" The boy announces proudly, shoving it in his mothers face.  
"Wh-why?"   
This is all she can say. She is broken, and tired, and filled with strained love for her child.   
"I tried to feed the fish some chocolate yesterday, but they just spat it out," William explains, "and when I grabbed one I realised that they didn't have teeth! So, because I have lots, I wanted to give them one of mine. So they could eat the chocolate."  
His mother stares in disbelief, and maybe fear, at her son.   
"Fish don't eat chocolate, mi tesoro," she answers calmly, placing her hands on her sons shoulders. His mouth, slick with blood, forms an 'O' shape. So calm and sweet he is, unaware of his issues. He isn't even in pain.   
"That's sad," he responds, "I was only trying to help."  
She purses her lips.   
"I was only trying to help, mama."  
"I know, William," she smiles, the look of worry gone from her face.   
"Now let's get you cleaned up."  
-  
-  
"Children, line up for your father," a shrill voice commands, and three children scuffle into a jagged queue.   
A man, dressed in a suit, his hair platinum blond and greyed stylishly, his lips thin and skin stretched across his face.   
The first - a girl - walks forward. She is the oldest, and with a posture to rival royalty: she is confident. Her kinky black hair is tied with a simple band, and her clothes are pristine. She is perfect in his eyes.   
"Olivia," the man says, his voice deep and scary, yet smooth and cunning.   
She opens her palm, and a swirling ball of light comes with it, sucking in any darkness. William shields his eyes and his hit over the head by his aunt.  
"Very good," his father says as the light days. Olivia smiles, and closes her palm. She walks away.   
"Sydney," his father calls, and beckons the next daughter. She is only slightly older than William, and they are as close as siblings can be. Not twins, not in looks or genetics, but in mind. Blond and brunette, brown eyes and blue. She is nervous, which is unusual for her.   
She walks forward and places her hand on the ground. It cracks open, and a sunflower begins to grow.   
His father smiles. It's the first time he's done that in a while.   
"Just like your mother," he says, "well done."  
Sydney nods her head, and lets out a visible breath of air as she walks over to her brother.   
"William," his father calls out, distaste in his voice now. William shuffles forwards, older now, but not by much. He opens his palm and lets free a small puff of smoke in an anticlimactic release.   
"What is this?" His father sneers. William closes his palm and quickly puts his arms behind his back, embarrassed.   
"Sorry," he mumbles, and lowers his head.   
His father wrinkles his nose, and looks away from his son.   
"You are a disgrace to your mother's memory. You are weak. Broken. Get out of my sight," he spits, and William runs.   
He runs away, back to the house, and cries.   
He hits himself. Again. And again.   
-  
-  
"Your son is sick, Mr Cifier," a voice echoes up the stairs, up to where William is sitting, unbeknownst to his father.   
"I know," his father says, no empathy in his voice, "he is unable to use his powers, if he has any."  
"That is not what I mean, sir," the voice says once again, slightly nervously. William listens in. He is used to the insults. The lack of love.   
"Is this to do with the... incidents?" His father sniffs. No response.   
"He is dangerous to himself and others. Let us be glad that he hasn't developed powers yet," the voice finally answers, whispering almost. William hears.   
He starts to cry. Quietly.   
"He must be taken to a more secure facility-"  
"No," his father answers, "this must not get out into the press, I'll be ruined. I'll keep the boy under control," his father continues.   
"You don't understand-"  
"No. I do understand. As much of a nuisance as he is, he does have his mothers... tendency to help. He isn't trying to hurt anyone. If I remove any means he has of hurting anyone, then he won't be tempted to. He is a supremely mundane boy."  
William could almost hear the intake of breath from the man.   
"Actually, sir, your son has an IQ of at least 170. He is a genius; hardly mundane."  
"Leave me be," his father responds in annoyance. William peers over the balcony.   
The man is leaving, a distant look on his face.   
His father looks upwards at his son.   
-  
-  
The dream cuts to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a dream from Will's perspective. In the first part he is around the 4, the second his is like 5, and the third he is roughly the same, 5 or 6 (I say 'around' or 'roughly' because I don't know what the equivalent is in demon years).


	8. Chapter 8

"Will, you okay?" I hear a voice shout. 

I turn, clutching my chest to stop my heart from escaping, and stare Dipper in the face. His brow is creased in worry and his shirt is in tatters - but he's alive. 

That's always the worry, that I'll wake up to a dead body or a gruesome murder. It's a waiting game at this point. 

My chest slows. 

"Nightmare," I answer, simply, and Dipper purses his lips. 

"Wanna talk about it?" He asks, whispering, as if this were a secret. As if they were two blushing schoolgirls talking about their crushes - not two grown men trapped and dying. 

"Not really," I admit, and Dipper nods in understanding. It's a great relationship to have, wherein you don't pry. I respect that. 

I look around the dingy cell - wet with water. The air is dry - as usual - but not so freezing that I cannot move. If anything - it's warmer. I smile to myself; they finally rid us of the cold.

The walls are darker and drip with our lifeline, letting the water fil the cracks and snake through the grooves in the floor. The light - on. 

And a parcel in the middle of the floor. 

I frown, and Dipper mirrors my gaze over to the large white box, so far away and so close. 

"What is that," I ask, in the same way that one may when seeing a monster, or a particularly bad drawing: in pure horror and slight curiosity. 

"I don't know, haven't opened it yet. I was waiting for you to wake up," Dipper answers with a casual shrug of his shoulders. 

"How gentlemanly," I tease, and he laughs. It feels good, to have a joke; a laugh down here. A juxtaposition of everything this is, rebelling against the very foundations of the place. 

But with all good things, it must end, and we both stop laughing. 

To stare at the box. 

It isn't moving, and there is no indication of anything dangerous inside except our own paranoia - but still neither of us are moving to let anything free.

I huff. 

"I'll open it," I say finally, to drop the tension, and to relinquish any power that they have over me. 

Well, to be fair, they have trapped me, so 1-nil to them I guess. 

I get up, the bare knees of my ripped jeans scraping against the rough floor as I do so, and walk hesitantly (more hesitantly than I would have liked) over to the box. 

It's large; I could easily fit in it with room to spare, and is tied with a large pink bow that sparkles with water droplets. The outer layer of the box is damp but it hasn't soaked through. Huh. Must not have been here very long. 

I place my hand on the bow, and grip one of the tendrils that are erect from it. And I stop, and wait, for any means of approval from Dipper. Any reason why I shouldn't go on. 

None. 

Okay than. 

I yank at the ribbon, and the box falls apart into four neat squares attached to the base. Inside are three smaller boxes, two with our names. One Dipper, one William, written in neat cursive on the top. They aren't tied, but they have a lid, and are rather large. 

"What is it?" Dipper asks, and his curiosity and caution strikes a nerve within me, strikes a memory. But, it escapes me as soon as I try to grasp it. 

"More boxes. There's one for you," I say, and pat the white box in front of me. I can almost hear Dipper's interest peak at that, and soon feel his warmth radiate over me as he joins my side. 

He grabs his box, and I mine. 

"Should we open it?" Dipper asks, and I snort. 

"As if you could stand to not open it," I tease once more, and Dipper flushes a deep red. So sarcasm makes him embarrassed - duly noted and stored into a deep section of my brain.

As if by clockwork, we both place our hands on the lid, and I can feel Dippers gaze on me as he waits for my word. 

I nod. 

We lift. 

"What the hell?" Dipper exclaims, ruffling through fabrics. 

I stare into my box, in a similar state of confusion, at the yellow and black mass of... something that lays in front of me. 

I crease my eyes - a poem.

 

"Picnic, picnic, what a lot of fun!

To sit and eat and run in the sun,

To dress in the finest silks and largest top Hats,

And laugh and snickEr and have the best of chatS, 

But alas! You Can’t, you're locked tIght away, 

Where the sun doesn't shine at night or at day, 

So a tea Party will have to do to keep morale High, 

So chatter and mingle and let your spirits fly!

But be warned, I'm watching, so participate you will,

Or another unknowing pErson I'll have to steal. 

Good luck, good friends, from Your pal unseen. 

Not God, nor Satan; somewhere in between."

 

"Did you get one too?" Dipper asks, and I snap my head up at his remark. 

"What?" I ask back. Something about the note... it doesn't sit right with me. 

"A note," he says, and I wave the paper at him. He nods and gulps at the box underneath him. 

"So I guess we get changed," Dipper says and I nod. 

"I guess we have to."


	9. Chapter 9

"Turn around," I order, and am met with utter compliance.   
"What, why?" Will moans, cradling a large pile of clothes. His mop of blond hair was scarcely visible, but the entire mountain of fabric shifted with his shoulders.   
"Because I'm going to get changed." I roll my eyes.   
"Fine," Will huffs, and drops all of the clothes with an utmost finality onto the floor. It's almost funny how childish he's being.   
"Thank you," I murmur, and hear a collection of grumbles from the other side of the cell.   
I too, empty the bundle of clothes out of my box, and am greeted with an odd assortment of blues and whites. It's strange.   
I lean down, very aware of my acquaintance behind me, and rifle through the pile. I pull out something with buttons - useful I know - and with further inspection discover its a shirt.   
Gripping the hem of my shirt, I prepare to pull it over my head until something very yellow catches my sight. A quick flash of panic rushes through me and I stumble backwards slightly, tripping over the box and landing with a large thump on the wet stone.   
I sit up, groaning slightly, and rub the bottom of my back, trying, and failing, to look at the place of issue.   
"Hey Dipper, you okay?" I hear a voice air their concern from above me. I look up, and am greeted with a completely shirtless William.   
I shield my eyes.   
"Y-Yeah I'm okay," I dismiss, waving my hand in front of my warming face blindly.   
"I'm not naked," Will states, obviously, and I laugh nervously behind my hand.   
"Just get changed beanpole," I tease half heartedly, and let out an exhale of air as he leaves.   
I remove my hand, and stand up, brushing the dust off my faded clothes, and gripping the hem of my shirt, I pull it over my head.   
I discard it quickly, and grab the next with the same haste, unbuttoning only two of the fastenings before yanking it over my eyes and pulling it down.   
It was fitted, scarily so, like a second skin. The white was starkly visible amongst the greys and blacks of their dingy prison.   
I fasten the other two buttons, and straighten the shirt. It was odd, a contrast over my ripped trousers, but comfortable, offering some sense of humanity.   
I look up, preparing to turn around again, and see the same flash of yellow. My breath catches, and my eyes focus, the steam on the lenses condensing and clearing my vision.   
But, this time, and perhaps the last, it was only Will.   
His back is curved slightly, his maple skin even and only broken by the cascade of light freckles down his shoulders. He is slim, but his shoulders are wider, and toned slightly. And on his back are an assortment of scars, from gashes aimed to kill.   
I catch myself staring, and look away with a newly forming blush as he pulls a shirt over his head.   
I swear I hear a chuckle, echoing around the room as if the owner was everywhere.   
Back to the task at hand, I reach around behind me again, and reach blindly for the next item of clothing.   
I pull something back. Pants.   
With quickening desperation, I rip my current trousers off and replace them with a pair of black formal ones, slim legged and fitted once again, creaseless.   
"Done," I hear a voice say.   
I look up, to see a fully dressed - and rather stylish - Will.  
His hair, messy from the hassle, is sticking in small, effortless waves all over his head, like feathers, or fluff. He is wearing a simple black shirt, covered by a yellow waistcoat that emphasises his slimness, fastened with small, triangular buttons. There are multiple belts over the waist, two or free crossed over each other as they joined at the back - presumably. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, revealing yet more scars, and with small golden accents of thread in the seams. Shiny shoes adorn his feet with, yet again, golden laces.  
He looks... pretty good.   
"Catching flies there Dip?" Will teases, and I close my eyes promptly, and respond with a very thought out and witty 'whatever' in reply. He laughs.   
I turn around, picking up the last item of clothing, and fiddle with the many, many folds it has.   
"Come here," Will says softly, pulling the blue item from my hands and shaking it lightly, causing it to reveal its identity as a navy cummerbund.  
"Turn around," he orders, and I do as he asks, not even questioning it.   
Why didn't I question it?  
Nimble fingers work their way round my waist, pulling the pleated fabric back slowly and carefully. I feel myself breathe in, suck in as he runs his hands over my hips, and exhale in small disappointment as he removes his hands, and spins me round my the arm.   
"Tada!" He says, like an idiot, and I have to smile. I honestly don't know why he has this effect on me, but I think I'd be embarrassed if anyone touched... there.   
I look up slightly and meet his eyes, the piercing shattered blue meeting mine for a little too long, his hands still on my forearms for longer than one would deem necessary.   
I felt my eyes drift downwards, and I pull away, coughing to clear the silence.   
"What do we do now?" I ask, and Will raises his eyebrow at me, that familiar analysis causing me to shiver slightly.   
He nods his head towards the discarded box in the corner.   
"What about that one?"  
I glance him over once more, I guess for reassurance, but for what I don't know, and turn to get the box.   
The remaining box is smaller, but in every other aspect it seems to be the same; the white paint and the ribbon.   
I lift up the lid, and frown.   
Saucers, cups, spoons...  
Like a child's tea set, but more adult, more fragile, more... real.  
"So a tea party will have to do," Will said, gravely, quoting the strange note we both received prior.   
"Touché," I agree, and begin to unpack our tea set.


	10. Chapter 10

Swimming memories; drowning memories.

A princess; bubbly and loud, and everything her brother was not, in the way that he was quiet and intuitive. Together, they provided peace to the kingdom, the yin yang if you will, and allowed the people to live in harmony. The brother, although timid, was not hesitant to fight for the peace, and often could be found with a beast in a net, and a quill in hand, documenting his discovery.  

And so the people lived, in peace, with nought but a care in the winds. 

However, one fateful day, a rogue magic entered their kingdom, hidden in shrouds of shadow and mystery. His name; unspeakable, only friendly to those who knew him, and even then the kindness of it was knowledge. He was not kind, this magic, and reinvented the phrase 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend'. He was everyones enemy, and so some may argue he was everyones friend, although unknown. 

So, as previously mentioned, an unknown magic entered the otherwise peaceful kingdom, in search of secrets covered by the lies of age. 

See, this kingdom was peaceful, sure, but not pure or untouched by the hell of the outside world. If anything, this kingdom was touched once, then left alone forever. Because, after the outside saw what it was truly like, they ran for the hills.

But this rogue magic was unknown, but knew much, and wanted to know more. And so, he delved further. 

The prince and princess knew of this magic, and they tried to fight it. 

They tried with all their heart.

And so there was a war. A dreadful, masochistic war that coveted pain and torture, run by a demonic sadist who lavished in every horrid crevice of the battle. 

The prince fought valiantly, both in mental and physical aspects, for the princess had been captured and caught within her own hopes and dreams. And although she was freed, they were outnumbered horribly. 

But they won, or so they thought.

For true evil; true malice can never be vanquished. And once you know its name, it takes hold over you, and scarcely lets go. 

Bill Cipher. 

Bill Cipher.

B i ll Cip h er 

B ill C I ph e r

B I      l      C I ph.       e.    r

B-

And then he was gone. Broken into pieces inside of the very secret he set out to steal, caught forever in the flames of his own evil, fuelled by his ever growing hatred.

And, in regard to the prince and princess, they were okay. Okay, meaning as broken as the magic that they vanquished. 

They walked out into the streets, waved their royalty to the common, and smiled back the tears that they drowned in each night. For once, they were separated, from each other, from the kingdom, and from reality. 

But, years later, they were fixed. They had glued the wonky pieces back into place and made do with what they had until they were partially functional, at least. And they were, and so they were happy, for a time. 

And then he was stolen away. Stolen like a chalice, or a prized painting in the night from his sister, who upon realisation of the terrible event, had wept and sobbed and thrown herself deeper into the chasm that she had worked so hard to pull herself out from. 

-

-

- 

Mabel stares at the ground, product running down her face in streaks of despair, her eyes pained from tears that had grown acidic over the weeks. Her brother is gone. Stolen by the one who she thought could do her no more pain. 

On the bed and on the ground are splatters of white paint that they had thrown in carelessness, or dripped from the mural they had painted over the wall.

It was... him. It had to be him. He left a tag mark so that she'd know it was him.  The same triangle, paired with a.. with a pine tree, with him. 

No other symbols, no shooting stars, no anything. 

But it was him.

She knew it.

"Honey?"  A gruff voice calls from downstairs, obviously calling to her, but she didn't want to come. 

She stays quiet, deadly quiet so that maybe her uncles would fall for her trick, her ploy, and believe that she's been taken just like Dipper. Just like her brother. 

But of course they don't. 

And they keep asking. 

"Mabel, honey, can you come downstairs please?" Grunkle Stan calls in more desperation than before. And it gets her attention. 

She gets up, with less speed than she probably should have, and makes her way in slow depression down to her uncles.

And when she reaches the bottom, she smiles a wayward smile that covers her sadness, her humanity, and shows it to her uncles. 

They don't buy it, and sit in a grave silence over the table, one in his long trench coat and the other wearing clothes (for once).

Her curiosity peaks, and she sits. 

"What?" She says in all her Mabel glory, but it isn't there. It's broken and fake, and sounds like a copy of a copy that had been copied multiple times before; she wasn't the real Mabel anymore, and she knew it.

"We think we know where your brother is," Stan says, after a long look at his brother and a short breath of confidence. 

Mabel stares, deadpan. She's heard it before. 

"Oh, okay," she says, smiling once again that fake and sickening grin. 

"We're sure, and you were right Mabel. It is to do with Bill Cipher," Ford carries on, placing his hand on his brothers shoulder, in a show of love only a twin could have. It makes her heart break more and splinter into irrevocable pieces. 

"Just not in the way that you would think," he explains, and Mabel listens, she listens with all of her damned being, but he can't hear. She's trapped. 

"We think he's stuck with him, somewhere," Ford says, and Mabel laughs. 

She laughs in bouts of insanity, in ways that she thought she had left locked up in files in her therapist's desk. 

It causes her mouth to stretch and widen, her hair to grey and her blood vessels to burst in the whites of her eyes. At least, that's what if feels like. 

"That's helpful," she sneers, in a completely not Mabel way. 

"He's 'somewhere'," she giggles. 

Then straightens. 

"Let me know when you find out," she spits, and walks away to return back to her cave, her pit of remembrance. Her cell; her asylum coated in pillows to stop her throwing her head at the wall and cracking her skull into as many pieces as her heart deigns to be in, to stop her from making the wall as red as her love for her brother, and as bloody as the death she imagines him having, every night. 

Guillotined, hung, perhaps simply shot. 

She giggles once more, and turns to walk away. 

Stan grabs her arm. 

"Mabel please," he croaks, and she almost feels sorry. 

She yanks her arm back.

"There is no Mabel without Dipper," she says, with little to no emotion, and walks off, leaving her old life at the table with her uncles.


	11. Chapter 11

"Dipper?" I ask. His face brightens, and he shakes off any worries that were playing on his mind.   
"It's nothing, I just... it's nothing," he concludes, and I squint my eyes slightly in disbelief. He twiddles with the hem of his shirt, the fabric weaving in and out of his digits, and looks onwards - away from me.   
"Right," I say, almost posed as a question, but no more information spills from his pursed lips, so I let it go. Well, until later, that is.   
"I guess we should have a tea party, then," Dipper says, clearing the settling silence that hung over us like the threat of a noose. However, I wasn't sure if the noose was gone, or resting loosely around our necks.   
All that was needed was a hand to tighten it.   
But the fates were on us, and they didn't.   
The walls are slick with running water, and the floors have pools of it flowing through the many cracks of the stone. The blanket is wet, and the pressure from the china has caused larger circles of water to appear. But yet, we sat.   
"What do we do?" Dipper asks, looking at the spread in front of him in a mix of confusion and disgust.   
"Talk?" I suggest, and Dipper looks at me with raised eyebrows. I glare at him.   
"You asked."  
Dipper shrugged and stared off at the blank wall, his face slightly forlorn and vastly tired. I purse my lips, and stare at him, trying to figure out what is going on in his head. Whatever it is isn't good; I can hear the gears rusting due to the pouring tears of his memories.   
"Tell me about the outside world," I blurt, and Dipper cocks his head at me. I'm sure I've asked this before. But, never before have I gotten a satisfactory answer.   
"Well, there's not much to tell really," Dipper shrugs, and starts to turn away again.   
"Then tell me about yourself, and your life," I suggest, quickly, and my words come out quite jumbled. Dipper smiles at me, in a cocky sort of way over my blunder, and my cheeks heat with... anger? Not quite...  
"Again, there's not much to say," Dipper starts, "I grew up in Piedmont, and visited the town of Gravity Falls with my sister when I was twelve. I moved there with her when I was fourteen, lived there with my uncle ever since."  
"Mabel?" I ask, remembering, and Dipper stares at me, impressed.   
"Yeah, Mabel," he says, and scratches the back of his neck, "she didn't want to move out to Gravity Falls, due to... bad memories. I left by myself, and she followed two months later. She didn't have to, but I'm glad she did. Made it less lonely, you know?"  
I nodded, even though the idea of companionship was rather foreign to me. Well, other than Dipper.   
"Why did you move out there?" I ask, crossing my legs tightly and placing my elbow on one of them. It was uncomfortable, and caused my core to ache, but Dipper laughed at my schoolboy manner, and so it made it worth it. The wrinkles under his eyes almost hid the sagging bags. Although, the weight they held may have been harder to mask, as there was a sadness behind Dipper's eyes.   
"I guess I just felt a pull towards the place," Dipper smiled, and sighed, "There was always something special about Gravity Falls. I discovered it the first summer I was there, but... things happened, and I gave it up. Life moves on, but I always loved being around it all; knowing it was there. Mabel was different. She didn't want anything to do with it. She admitted to me later that whilst she loved our friends, she would have been happy never seeing them again, if it meant never going back there."  
Dipper hid his eyes.  
"She must have loved you then," I said, and Dipper smiled slightly, "because she came back."  
"But she was never the same," Dipper admitted, and turned to me, and I swore I could see the rim of tears in the cavern of his eyes.   
We sat in silence for a good while, Dipper not making eye contact, and my eyes permanently fixed on his face.  
"Dipper?" I ask quietly. I don't want to scare him, which is silly, I know.   
But he looks so fragile, I can't help it.   
"You know I've never been to prom," Dipper says, wistfully, staring off into the nothingness.   
"What?" I say, before I can catch my words, and as they tumble out of my mouth Dipper turns to look at me.   
"I was so busy with everything, I never got to go to prom," Dipper said, half laughing.  
I creased my eyebrows, and my confusion must've been evident.   
"You have no idea what prom is, do you?" Dipper chuckles, and my cheeks redden.   
"So?" I say defensively, and Dipper shakes his head in disbelief.   
"Nothing... it's just, it's prom."  
"Thanks that really clears it up," I say defensively, maybe a little too much so, as Dipper looks slightly taken aback.   
"So what do you do at prom?" I say, rushing to reinstate the happiness that was flowing around us.   
"I don't know... dance? Drink? Have sex?" I jump backwards on the floor slightly, before laughing.   
"Mabel?" I guessed, and Dipper nodded.   
"Oh yeah, I heard all about her prom night," Dipper confirmed, and I couldn't help but laugh. The mental image of Dipper sitting with a brunette, discussing her sex life was just too much.   
"Well... why don't we do that?" I suggest, and Dipper reddens significantly.  
"What... you want too-?" Dipper stutters, and a bout of realisation hits me like a train.   
"No, no! I meant dance," I rush, and Dipper lets his shoulders fall from his ears.   
"Oh." He says, "why?"  
He isn't making this easy.   
"Because you haven't had a prom." I spell it out for him.   
"Oh." Dipper says again.   
"Okay then," he confirms, and gets him, his knees creaking as they shake off the wetness from the floor.   
I get up too, and place my hands gingerly on his waist, and he lays his lightly over my shoulders. The height difference was terribly noticeable, although there wasn't much in it. Dipper's hair tickles my nose as I pull him closer, causing both of our bodies to rush blood to our faces.   
We sway; Dipper steps on my feet.  
"How did you learn how to dance?" Dipper questions, his face downturned towards his shoes as he concentrates on the steps.   
"My mother," I answer automatically.  
And then Dipper gasps, suddenly.   
"You remembered!" He beamed, and hugged me.   
"You're remembering!" He observed once more, and I laugh nervously.   
Something tells me, something deep inside of me, that that wasn't a good thing.


	12. Chapter 12

Extract from 'The New York Times', Page 5.

Multiple sources from Oregon are describing what they say is 'The End of the World'. Although these sound like the ramblings of a madman, local scientists say that their layman's account isn't too far from the truth. With readings only synonymous with that of an nuclear attack, it doesn't take a genius to figure out what caused the hassle over in Oregon. However, what does seem odd is why they targeted the town of Gravity Falls, which for our less travelled readers, isn't even on the map. Speculation of a secret government base has arisen, and stories of nuclear war, and even aliens are back in circulation. Even though the alien theory has been brought up like clockwork, and has been proven false by many top scientists, it does make one wonder.   
What's so special about Gravity Falls?

Work of Edgar Von Hamburg, Oregon Journalist

The work ethic here must be marvellous! Only two weeks after the supposed attack, and all buildings have been rebuilt, however the chip in the paint and the wear of the wood does put a damper on this theory. Perhaps they have the work ethic, but not the skill. And, looking at the locals, that isn't too hard to believe. I saw a man yesterday squatted over a tree stump, cawing like a bird! And, when questions were asked, the locals hushed me away with many renditions of 'Never mind all that!'. Honestly!  
I can see how Gravity Falls missed the map, considering its subpar attractions. One diner, a row of shops, a shopping mall and a decrepit, old building christened 'The Mystery Shack' that sits alone in the middle of the woods. Upon entry of the building, I again was pushed away by two senior men, one yelling many profanities over a can of 'Pitt Cola', the other with what I could swear was a gun.   
In regards to the forest, it could be described as mystical, almost! One too many an occasion, I turned my back and quickly turned around again, the feeling of eyes on my back prevalent and unsettling. Many times, I saw what looked like a rabbit in a cone hat run off into the trees. Although, I was not aware that rabbits yelled 'Queen!'. Perhaps they have been mutated by the supposed radiation.   
Which brings me on to this: I entered at my own risk. And although questioning why the townspeople stayed even after such an event, I can now see why they decided not to leave.   
Nothing happened! What a load of kerfuffle. Honestly.   
Don't believe everything you read in the news, folks. A nuclear attack on Gravity Falls! Why, I've never laughed so much in my life!  
Got to go, a squirrel is currently chewing on my very expensive pant leg. Shoo!

Robert Valentino, Gravity Falls Resident and Disaster Victim

Interviewer: So, Robert, You were in the disaster?  
Robert: It's Robbie, Sherlock Lames. Get it, cause you're lame? Robbie, one!  
Interviewer: So... Robbie. Care to tell us what happened here?  
Rober- Robbie: Well, the triangle was like pow! And we were like hiyah! It was mostly me, of course, and he ran screaming for the hills. Or, floated, you know. Stubby triangle legs.   
Interviewer: Right.   
[Speaks into recorder "subject is displaying signs of shock, and perhaps madness.]  
Robbie: I can still hear you, you know?  
Interviewer: Oh, yes... I forgot. Carrying on, can you tell me what you mean by 'triangle'?  
Robbie: Oh, the it's name was Jill Cougher? Gil Blubber? It may have been a girl man, I don't even know. Dipper knows that kind of stuff, I'm just the muscle.   
Interviewer: [Writing down] And where can I find this, Dipper?  
Robbie: Oh no, you don't! That little flower isn't stealing my moment! [cough] Not that he could, of course.   
Interviewer: Please can you tell me where to find hi- wait what?  
[Tiny gnome people pick up the interviewer]  
Gnomes: Queen! Queen!   
Interviewer: Gah! Boy, help me!   
Robbie: I- I would, but it would be a waste of my awesomeness. Robbie, out!  
[Interviewer is presumably carried away and emo boy is nowhere to be found].

Piece of paper in the forest, recovered by E. Von Hamburg.

We'll meet again,  
Don't know where,  
Don't know when!  
Oh I know we'll meet again,   
Some sunny da- [Trails off]

SIxty degrees that coMe in threes,   
Watches from within Birch trees,  
SAw his own dimension burn,  
Misses home and Can't return,   
Say's he's happy, he's a liar!  
Blame the arson for the fire.  
If he wants to shirK the blame,  
He'll have to invoKe my name,  
One way to absolve hIs crime,  
A Different form;  
A different time.

It should be noted for record that Mr Von Hamburg attempted to [allegedly] burn this paper, and it would not do so. However, it should also be noted that Mr Von Hamburg has not been the same since his visit to Gravity Falls, and is being assessed under the care of a mental institution.   
This being said, we cannot debunk his theories and writings as journalists are not allowed to travel out to Gravity Falls, for fear of madness and contamination, and a warning has been issued to the public about travelling to the town.   
This paper will be placed in the archives under VH, for Von Hamburg, and kept for safe keeping until someone goes to Gravity Falls, or until Mr Von Hamburg recovers.   
Signed, John South.


	13. Chapter 13

Dipper had gone on a spree. A mad spree. And I didn't stop him.   
Cheap china splashed in daggers across the wall, fallen in heaps of asbestos paint and odd, jagged corpses.   
A man; a boy, eyes red in anger and bloodshot with madness, hands slashed from crimes borne of the past, sobbing on the floor in a cell that he thought he'd never escape. Ripped gashes from their claws; his claws, ran across his white shirt, with blotches of white skin escaping from them in the small white light.   
White.   
White.   
Black and white and white and black and white and white and white.   
And black.   
"Dipper," I shout, barely a whisper above the silence of total, momentary insanity.   
I make no dent in the screams.  
"Dipper!" I shout louder, breaking the screams to whimpers, and the blood that poured angrily from his hands into a soft stream of pain.  
Curled into a ball on the floor, I can't help but wonder what happened to break him? Pale skin becomes paler as the red gushes, and his clothes sport new blotches of growing red.  
"Dipper," I repeat, soft and full of empathy as I dare to venture closer.  
I kneel next to him, sprung on one knee so I can jump backwards if the dog decides to bite.   
"I'm sorry," he sniffles, and I place my hand warily on his back, lightly stroking my fingers up the dampened fabric, tender touches to calm his tender mind.   
"It's okay," I comfort, my hands finally reaching the ball of his back, receiving a wave of shivers from Dipper, barely noticeable above the shakes of his sobs.  
More blood.   
There's so much blood.   
I have a moment, a moment of both impulse and anxiety, as I stare in forlorn silence at my own weathered fingertips.   
"Dipper, give me your hand," I say with no real emotion, nothing to convince him to trust me. But, despite my words, he does, with no arguments or questions asked.   
I don't know whether I should be thankful, or worried. Questions asked beforehand may give me the chance to explain, to explain myself to him and to gain his trust and understanding before approaching, with less chance of driving my only friend away forever with such new found hatred for me that I could never hope to win him back with my words, naught my actions, for what action co9uld one do in a place so cramped and dull as the cell we are currently stuck in?   
Whether I was referring to this physical cell, with its damp walls and cracked floor, or whether I was referencing my damp and cracked mind, the nerves that allow any feeling either in disuse or overdrive, the same thoughts playing endlessly in my head, and still managing to shock and horrify me, one may never know.   
But nevertheless, the trust he places in me gives me boost, but also pause. Trust is fragile, as fragile as the human body or mind. Trust can break them both, and heal them both, but taken quickly would be like ripping scaffolding from a building. Although, the removal of trust warrants a much more silent fall, and much more deadly, for everyone knows of the fall of a building. Everyone knows, and so everyone helps to rebuild it. Whereas in ones mind, the sudden removal of trust causes a fault, a fault that is opened and widened and stretched to the point of no return, and guess what? No one cares, because no one can see.   
But I could see. I can still see, see the trust he has instilled upon me, like a sudden dose of adrenaline. But with every step I fear that it will run clean, and in fact, I fear that this may be the moment that the Nile dries.   
And so I sit, with his hand in mine, the rich warmth of his blood flowing freely across my hand, the stabs of pain felt across the both of us in equilibrium.   
My eyes close, in an attempt to hide the world from my sight, to shield it like a child shields their eyes.   
It's not there, it isn't! I can't see you, and you can't see me!  
And a new warmth flows through my fingertips, slowly, my veins turning a luminescent blue as they motor energy through them.   
And then they light up with fire, flames that lick across my palm and dance over to his, flames that dry the blood and seal the cuts. Embers that embed themselves in his skin to take his pain, and a glow that lingers long after they leave, shown across the horrified look on Dipper's tear-streaked cheeks.   
And as soon as they go, he pulls himself away. Shaking, and heaving, he stares at me, his eyes wide and childlike as he looks on memories that I can't see, that I don't want to see.   
I smile, wonkily, but the worry behind my eyes is clear as day.   
"You," he breathes, and its so ragged, I struggle to hear. But the message is clear.   
I am him, and he is bad, or so Dipper thinks.   
But I'm not.   
"Dipper, let me explain," I try, my voice deadly still as emotion flows back from my brain and hides in the pit of fear that festers deep inside me.   
"N-no," he stutters, pointing to me but at the same time, not to me, as if there is something in my place that causes him to recede into a paranoid mess.   
"I don't know who you think I am, or, or what you think I did," I gulp, "but I'm not that."  
He looks upon me, around me, and through me, and my words seem to hit him yet miss him.  
How can I win this game of battleships?  
Dipper backs away, his newly healed hands scraping against the floor in hurried and frantic trauma.   
"Dipper, it's me, it's Will," I try, but he isn't listening. His hands are over his ears and his eyes squeezed painfully shut, the creases carrying so many years of stress that its hard to see past them.  
I move closer, quietly, and Dipper is trapped, and I'm trapping him. But still I move closer, wary, like a predator to prey.   
It feels oddly natural.   
And I sit, in front of him, watching the soft rocks of anxiety go back and forth, back and forth, and watch the lines of his eyes decrease one by one.   
And, despite myself, I reach out and brush my fingers along his wrist. He flinches, unsurprisingly, and tries to back away. But of course, he can't. His eyes are still closed, shutters closed and snapped with haste.  
It's not there, it isn't! I can't see you, and you can't see me!  
At least, I hope you can't see me.  
"Dipper," I try, shakily and messily, although I am scarcely aware of the part of my brain that makes me say it like that. I want it to be real. Don't trick me, brain. You can't manipulate me, and you sure as hell won't manipulate him. But, it comes as easy as riding a bike, and once it is learned it is heard to forget, and so my brain carries through despite my pleas.   
But the want is so strong, I guess the method doesn't really matter.  
And then something clicks. His rambling, incoherent, and his nightmares that make him sweat even in the cold, sweat out the water that he doesn't drink.   
"He's not here Dipper," I whisper, although I am not particularly sure who he is.   
And I take another jump, another guess.   
"I'm not him," I say, and Dipper looks at me with his brown eyes wide and scared, red and puffy from crying and his brow creased in apprehension.   
"But the flames," he stutters, and I smile.   
When you cant use weapons, use courtesy as a shield, for it works twice as well and doubles as a sword to trip them with.   
But I don't want to trip him, but help him up.   
So I lend him the handle, taking the blade for myself, and help him up.   
Dipper reveals his head from his arms, and sits curled close, but visible.   
"I've always been able to do that, ever since I got here," I admit, and it's true. I have.   
"So you aren't him, you aren't Bi-Bill Cipher," he sniffs, in such a childlike way I wonder if he has reverted back to some previous terrified form of himself.   
"I don't even know who that is," I laugh, but it is broken and flawed. Yet the thought is there and it calms him.   
He brings his head up, his Adams apple bobbing slowly in his throat, the slight ghost of stubble concealing it from me.   
"So you're magic?" He questions, with the same curiosity and thirst that I imagine him to have had. He hasn't shown it before however, and so I watch with intent.   
"I guess," I answer, crossing my legs under me.  
"And you're not human," he says, and I shake my head, pulling back my hair slightly, to reveal an ear that points as an elf's does.  
"I never noticed them before," Dipper marvels, and reaches out, before remembering himself.   
I smile, and take his wrist up to my head.   
I watch as he touches my ear with interest, and even though it's weird - God, it's weird! - the look of wonder on his face makes me forget.   
And then he pulls his hand back, and looks at me, and I at him.   
And then at his lips.  
And then the gap closes, and I'm tasting his tears, and his anxieties, and feeling them melt away in one short burst.   
Then he pulls away, and I find myself pulled forward, longing for his chapped skin.   
And then he starts laughing.   
"Will," he giggles, and I look at him with a cocked head, still dazed by the kiss.   
"Will, you're evaporating the water," he says, and sure enough my hands are ablaze, and steam flows around our faces.   
"Oh," I say, my grin wide, my hands closed to douse the flames.   
Leaning in, I bridge the gap once more, and pray that he doesn't pull away.


	14. Chapter 14

"And then they were late for my party, can you imagine? Being late?" A voice chuckles from beside me. I look around, sharply, narrowing my vision on what seems to be Will.  
Although, it isn't Will, not really. He is donned in the Hatter's hat, and the Hatter's clothes, even his eyes mirroring the madness that the Hatter seemed to have in the stories, and the films.  
In fact, even his mannerisms seem madder, and more hatter-ish, if that is a word. It probably isn't, however it describes him perfectly. Wide eyes rimmed with red and a large inhuman grin spread across his cheeks as he talked up a storm of one thing or the other.  
And then, for a moment, I glance down at myself. A blue dress, large and blooming at the bottom, covers my body, and as I reach up to my head I feel a band upon my head. My feet are stuffed in small black shoes, fit for a dancer, and long white tights cover my legs. I frown, and look around, away from myself.  
A countryside of green trees melted into blue skies before me, rabbits running and men hopping along the ground. The grass is laughing and they jest with the flowers, and even the caterpillars seem to have a laugh. Children speed along, although they wear the strangest clothes, like those out of a novel.  
In fact, it almost seemed that I was in a story, if not for Will sat next to me. Although, his faint ramblings about this and that seem out of place, and completely irrelevant, and he talks like I am listening, which I am not.  
"Will?" I ask, breathing, smoothing down my skirts - which is not a sentence I ever though I would say - looking over at my maddened friend.  
He does not answer me.  
"The smallest of mice diddly up the clock, and yet the smallest of Hatters can't diddly a hat!" He chortles in response, carrying on with his spiel of nonsense.  
"William!" I huff, standing up suddenly, my legs itching from the unfamiliar fabrics and my feet hurting from in the shoes.  
"My dear Alice, it is as if Wonderland has fallen down a hole like you! Topsy turvey we are, topsy like shoes on ones head, and turvey like one who is late!" He says aghast, and looks finally in my direction. His eyes are glazed over.  
"Topsy turvey?" I ask, and he smiles at me.  
"Topsy turvey! Oh yes, dear Alice. Madness encumbers Wonderland, and not that which flows from your Hatter here," he says gravely, gesturing to the surroundings around him.  
I look, of course confused, but am greeted with the fallings of the sky in such a fashion that I knew what was being played before me.  
A split opens in the sky, mismatched pinks and oranges spilling out in waves, as the dome above us reddens and decays.  
I gasp, moving backwards, tripping over the stump of a tree which sniggers at me in its hellish way.  
In the distance: Gravity Falls, overcome with bubbles of insanity and waves of horror. Maggots of blood devour the hill in front of me as I scour back desperately, vaguely aware of Will to my left, standing calmly at the prospect of his death.  
I shout for him, but he seems not to hear me.  
I turn and run, and run, and run, the shoes falling from my feet as soon as I take off, the dress melting into a red shirt and blue jacket, my tights replaces with shorts and long white socks. My head feels heavy with the weight of the hat, foreign for all these years.  
And then a hand clutches me, and I gasp, tumbling on to the dead grass and decapitated flowers and shrivelled caterpillars as they cry in their silence beneath me.  
I look upwards, the shine from the end blinding me, and see a familiar face over mine.  
"Will," I struggle, "let go of me!"  
And then Will does something so not Will-like, my breath catches in my throat.  
He opens his mouth, and sharpened needles crawl towards me, a long tongue licking the points, spilling blood onto my shirt and spreading it around his face as he licks his lips, lips that are spread thin into a satanic smile. He laughs, and his mouth scarcely moves, only the blood pours faster and his eyes grow larger.  
And then his eyes turn yellow, and pupils into splits.  
I scream.  
I struggle.  
But he holds me, demented laughter on a twisted face, Will's kind features carved into a vessel for... Him.  
"THOSE WITH SIGHT NEVER SEE!" He yells, happily, shrieking the words and smiling wider than possible. He shrieks it in his voice, that horrible, piercing voice that plagues dreams and creates nightmares.  
I scream, the pain splicing my arm as he drags his sharpened finger up it, slicing the skin and spilling yet more blood onto the ground.  
And then it goes deathly silent.  
And then he leans closer.  
His lips close into a smile so small that you wouldn't see it if you didn't know him, and I don't pretend to know him, but I know him enough to smell the sinister meaning of that smile. His eyes close to a sneer. He almost looks like Will now, spare for the blood smeared across his cheeks and the yellow of his eye.  
He closes in on my ear, biting it with force as I close my eyes and whimper.  
"Do you see, Pinetree?" He whispers.  
"Do you see now?"


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this is kind of a null chapter. I needed a way to get Will to communicate with Mabel, and wasn't sure how to write the Mindscape! So if the description's a little bad, now you know why. Also, I'm trying to get back motivation for this fic; trying to gain ideas. So if it seems repetitive, that's why! I promise I won't abandon this one! Now that I'm back to writing chapters, the releases will become more frequent. 
> 
> Also its exam season, so RIP. I'm doing my best at the moment, guys.

I'm not sure where I am. The air is thick, and at the same time more elating and lighter than anything I've ever felt before. At the same time however, the sensation feels familiar, but clinging to the back of my memories like a stubborn child.   
The floor isn't really a floor, with misty and colourful smoke pooling under my feet, and as I step forwards, they follow me - reacting to my feet. There are no walls, but at the same time it doesn't feel endless. It's a room, but the walls are mirrors. Smoky mirrors.   
I step again, the pink light that comes from under my feet causing my head to spin and eyes to flash black as they adjust to the new hue in the air. But of course, it keeps changing.   
I'm going to get a migraine.   
I blink away the black spots, and walk forwards, escalating into a run as I head into fog. Disco lights erupt from the ground as I go, causing the whole scene to feel - again - vaguely familiar.   
Except the blackness, the nothingness, that feels new. Like the smell of new bleach in the morning.   
The walls close in and I close my eyes, busting through the mist with my shoulder to the smoke, tumbling onto the now solid ground below me.   
My head spins erratically, and I slowly raise my hand to my head - although it doesn't hurt. Almost like a numb feeling spreads across my scalp, masking any possible pain with lies and trickery.   
I open my eyes, and catch my breath almost immediately. A corridor, seemingly endless and lined with doorways, stretches out in front of me - the doors multi coloured and different in every possible way. It was almost like a scene from the Shining - if the Shining set had been painted like a rainbow.   
And another odd thing - the doors weren't numbered exactly. Dates ran across them, some from the same day and others weeks apart. I stand, wobbling, and turn the nearest door to me.   
It's bright, and blue, with glitter applied cheaply to the frame, and the plaque reads 31/08/2002. Just over 16 years ago, at least I assume. Time is lost to me.   
I push it reluctantly, and it creaks open to a bright room, presents piled high and two toddlers lying on the floor, wrestling and giggling. A woman sits on her knees with them, brown curly hair tucked behind her ears to make space for her growing smile. A man - his face twitching as he tries not to smirk at the two kids.   
"Mabel, you're going to hurt your brother!" The woman scorns playfully, pulling the baby off the other.   
Mabel... the name seems familiar.  
"I was just playing!" The baby explains, her voice unusually developed for a toddler, "I want to play with Dipper!"  
The woman - presumably their mother - smiles and shakes her head.   
"I don't think Mason wants to play, Mabel," she says, and Mabel pouts, wriggling out of her mother's arms.   
Dipper.   
These are Dipper's memories. Or... Mabel's?  
But that doesn't make any sense, does it? Firstly: I'd never even met her. Secondly: I am with Dipper. If I were to take a small trip into someone's mind, surely it would be his? Surely their kidnapper wasn't so stupid as to not guard the place from magic?  
I walk backwards, shutting the door and taking off down the corridor. The dates blur, the colour slowly draining from them.   
2010, 2011, 2012...  
Wierdmageddon.  
I remember Dipper talking about it, in a sweat, and step back slightly. The door is no longer sparkles, and happiness.   
Tape secures it shut, blocking it from entry. It's wooden and hard; unmoving.   
Someone doesn't want me to get in.   
I reach for the handle, the friction passing through me as I push it open, slightly apprehensive.   
And it's just like Dipper said.   
The sky; purple, with falling stars that aren't supposed to fall. The waterfall climbs into the clouds as if to devour them, and the endless stream of bloody water forms in droplets that float across the sky, burning acidic holes into the trees and leaving a burnt trail across the decrepit road.   
And in the centre of it all, a girl - a woman, her hair blowing and her stature unusually calm.   
"Hello?" I call, and she jerks her head at me.   
"Who are you?" She croaks, and I suck my breath in. She's crying, and worse, she sounds like Dipper.   
"Mabel?" I ask, taking a wild guess. By her sudden movement, I'm pressed against a wall, her arm against my throat and her face tear streaked but determined.   
"How do you know me?" She demands an answer, all weakness gone from her voice. I gulp - which she probably felt on her forearm - and smile charmingly down at her.   
"I'm with your brother, Mabel. Trapped. We need your help."


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know it's not long, but I couldn't think of anything else to say anyhow.

"Are we ever going to get out?" I groan, throwing a balled up sock against the monotonous walls, trying to coerce a conversation out of my cell mate.

"I don't think it's our choice," Will mutters from the corner, his voice dreadfully slow and painfully emotionless; he was either deep in thought or comatose.

The days had racked up, and with an absence of mysterious boxes and a limited flow of topics, the two men had found themselves at a standstill - both physically and mentally.

"What a ray of sunshine you are," I tease, throwing the sock at my partner, who flinches only slightly when the fabric bounces lackadaisically off his head. Ashen lips drawn to a pout, and emerald eyes that  flash grey, Will stays still, not looking. Not doing anything.

The lack of torture was worrying really. The temperature is at a standstill, and the walls only secrete fluid once every couple of days - presumably when it rains outside. And with every passing hour the ravine between him and Will seems to deepen, the other man completely caught up in his own cacophony of thoughts.

I sigh. "Seriously, Will, you can't just sit here in silence forever."

The man raises his head in acknowledgement, and his shadowed eyes glint with the ghost of mischief, his lips quirking upwards out of his frown.

"Forever is a funny word, don't you think?"

I look up at him, shocked at the sound of his voice, and raise my eyebrows in anticipation. It doesn't exactly seem like he needed a partner in his monologue.

"For - ever. It implies that there's something, something that lasts and is eternal. Ever. _Everything._ To be perfectly honest Dipper, it seems like at the moment we've got a hell of a lot of nothingness."

I don't move: still, and wait for an advance on his words.

"What happened to you?" I ask, a desolate hint of betrayal in my voice. I'm not _nothing_.

He smirks, but all energy had abandoned him.

"I reached out for help. They didn't respond. It's just easier to give up, don't you think?"

I snort, a desperate attempt at hiding my own lack of faith, and wave my hand dismissively at the blond.

"Eternity is a hell of long time to stay here," I point out, getting up and moving closer to the man, who neither shifts closer to me, or jumps further away.

"Somehow, Dipper, I think I'm quite familiar with the concept of eternity," Will responds, pulling his knees from his chest out onto the floor and letting them drop flaccidly to the stone.

I glance at him, and almost flinch at the look in his eyes. Swimming in all that nothingness, all that resignation, was a small fish of familiarity. A yellow one.

And suddenly, Will turns, and I sink in to the dreadful sensation that played upon our lips as they fought each other, allowing myself to fall limp to the vices of the other man, too tired to move. Too tired to feel.

As he pulls away, mouth striped with peeling flesh and face flashing a sickening blush of green, he looks to me, eyes blazing into my own with an exhausted zeal to find something.

"What do you mean 'reached out for help'?"

Will curls in on himself as he casts out his posture, face falling from ruined perfection into a heavy look of... something. Guilt? Acceptance? Fear?

"You can't run from me forever Will. We are sharing eternity together after all."

"... I can't remember how I know how to do it."

"All I know is that I can."

I look at him, at his face, his nose, at the freckles that dance across his cheekbones.

And at his eyes. At the slashed black upon gold.

_The charred face of Preston Northwest as he scratches desperately at the peeling skin of his face, clawing at his disfigured features, pleading to the god in the sky._

"I don't remember a lot of things, Dipper, and that scares me. Not knowing. I don't know who I am."

_The frozen look of Ford as he turned to pure gold, fear radiating through the metal in streaks of light, and blood caught boiling, roasting him from the inside out in a cocoon of the devils making._

" _What_ I am."

_Time is dead and meaning has no meaning._

_Reality is upside down and I reign supreme!_

_"Dipper?" Mabel asks, her face youthful and scarred with the slashes that drained her of childhood innocence. She looks at me, sweater torn, with glassy eyes, her headband reflecting the_

_dreadful pattern of the sky and her hair matted from blood, and tears._

_"Yes Mabel?" I answer, a prepubescent ring of fear escaping my voice as I reach forward to embrace my sister._

_She sniffles, but nothing falls from her eyes. They are run dry. She has mourned their losses for too long now._

_"He's won, hasn't he?"_

Dipper looks on at the man, whose eyes are empty spare for the same familiar lenses that peered into his nightmares. There are tears.

And he feels no anxiety. He doesn't throw things, he doesn't scream, he doesn't cry.

He moves away backwards.

Face to face with the beast.

_"Dipper?"_

_"Dipper, it's him!"_

_"He's here!"_

I turn to him, the man who has shared my passion for these many weeks.

"I know you," I say, colour draining from my face and pooling around my ankles.

He frowns, brow creasing and eyes crinkling in confusion, their demonic hue as prevalent as ever, yet abrasive on the innocence of his features.

_"Welcome one and all,"_

"You're him."

          " _To Wierdmageddon!"_

"You're Bill Cipher."

 


	17. Chapter 17

_“It’s been a bad bad week with the Devil in town_

_And all my friends on the floor_

_There’s been a flood and a fire and a break of the plague_

_And all the X’s on the doors_

_But then the golden fruit at the top of the hill_

_Came a’ rollin’ to my feet_

_Oh, heavens I can’t lie Father what can I say, well it tasted so sweet_

_God give me more…”_

_xXx_

_He looks over the burning city, black wings spread out like a veil behind him, blocking out all light. His eyes blink – three to be exact; too wide to be human and gleaming too much to be sane. His blond hair flutters like a mirage, a myriad of tiny wings causing the strands to take flight. Gold lines his ears, along the pointed cartilage and down to the lobes, and extends down into his robe, outlining the iris of his eyes. He wears no sandals, for he flies, and his bare feet loom dangerously over the carcass of civilisation._

_“Baal,” a demon prays, sniffling and pleading for mercy, clutching his souls to his chest and heaving the very destruction he had set out to avoid._

_He looks down to the demon, so much smaller than he, and smiles – revealing a cascade of teeth and a serpentine tongue that licked at their red-stained tips._

_“Where is your ambition, child?” Beelzebub purrs, running a gold tipped finger underneath the demon’s throat, “where is your **gluttony?**_ ”

_The demon sniffles, his insignificant pleas lots to the busy ears of his Lord, and Beelzebub turns from him – from the desolation – bored._

_“You disappoint me,” He snarls, blue flames dancing over his gilded fingers, “humans are so much more interesting.”_

_Beelzebub returned to his thoughts as he snapped his fingers, the monotonous sound of the demon’s screams burning behind him acting as a metronome for his muses._

 

_xXx_

_In his book ‘Admirable History’ (1612), Sébastien Michaëlis wrote that Beelzebub was one of the three most prominent fallen angels, the other two being Lucifer himself and Leviathan. He also named the Baal as the deadly sin Pride. He was close, but not quite._

_Francis Barrett wrote that Beelzebub was the demon of false gods. He was close, but not quite._

_The closest to the truth would be a mix of the two._

_Beelzebub was not a fallen angel, but a god in himself. Not **the** God, no, but one of many that resided among the wretches of hell and the glamour’s of Heaven._

_He was the patriarch of Gluttony and relished in those who sought after what they didn’t need. He was prideful, yes, but he wasn’t Pride. That title fell to Lucifer._

_He was the god that demons worshipped. He didn’t ‘fall’, for there was nowhere for him to fall from. He followed the most opportune movement for power, and although the vengeful and destructive nature of God had satisfied him thus far, the plunge of Lucifer Morningstar caught the attention of the Lord of the Flies. So, in a way, yes, he fell to follow the path of power._

_Some sources attribute Beelzebub as synonymous to Lucifer, to the devil, and to that I say… not quite. Lucifer is a demon posing as a god. Beelzebub is one._

_Manipulative and shrewd, Beelzebub twisted the minds of kings and monks into his favour and gained a many deal of followers through his corruption._

_But even gods get tired._

_xXx_

_“My Lord?” She hums, quite apprehensive but not afraid, for she is close to her Lord in a way others were not._

_Beelzebub doesn’t look round, but smiles to himself as his follower, Sitri, unfurls from her position behind him._

_“Do you ever wish for something more, Sitri?” Beelzebub ponders, looking out over the charred remains that slave in the fields of Hell._

_“Always, my Lord,” she affirms, taking her place beside him. He steps forwards so that he teeters on the edge, volcanic rock curling round his feet._

_“What fun is there in running the world? Where is the challenge, the excitement, the achievement?” Beelzebub softens, watching the helpless husks below as they are whipped into submission._

_Sitri stays quiet._

_“If I were to leave, Sitri, would you follow me?” He asks, hearing the hitch of the breath and the purr on her tongue._

_“Always My Lord. I am yours. I will follow you always.”_

_Beelzebub simpers slightly, and turns around to her, his golden eyes unusually placid and gleaming like honey, his jawbone unclenched and shoulders loose._

_“As a follower or as a friend?” He ponders, walking close to her and lifting her chin up to his eyes._

_“Baal…” she starts, but he silences her, his face relaxed and welcoming._

_“I have yet to have a friend, and I would so like to collect the full set.” His tongue flicks over his teeth._

_Sitri swallows, suddenly afraid of her Lord._

_“I would be honoured,” she bows, and looks down to the floor, aware of her Lord’s rich russet hands placed on her cheeks._

_And then he turns from her._

_“What name would you choose?” She queries, moving closer to him. He seems so much larger now._

_His brow furrows._

_“A pseudonym would be in order, I suppose. Very well,” Beelzebub touched his finger to his chin in striking thought._

_“William – desire, determination, strong-willed. Vaguely regal.”_

_Sitri smiles at its simplicity, “it suits you, Lord.”_

_William turns back to her, and there is a new fire in his eyes, one excluded from the mass of flame in Hell._

_“I do so love adventure, Sitri. The unknown beckons me, us. Do you feel it?”_

_She does._

_“I think I shall choose Pyronica for my own name.”_

_Her Lord – William – smirks at that, “Almost phallic, with an air of destruction. Quite befitting.”_

_He smiles to himself, and it is quite crazed and quite magnetic, and Sitri cannot look away for she is in a new sort of awe._

_“The unknown means new things to concur, to gain. And how I shall relish the satisfaction once I crack the code.”_

_Sitri – newly Pyronica – allows herself a sly grin. “The cipher of humanity.”_

_Her Lord hums at that, twisting his robes between his fingers._

_“Cipher,” he purrs, looking for the last time at the chaos of hell, “I suppose so.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song lyrics at the beginning of this chapter comes from one of my favourite songs. Its called 'Do I Look Like I Go To Your Youth Group' by Burn the Ballroom. A lot of their music is quite demonic sounding, not because it's rock but because of the lyrics and tune, so it is quite good for this story. 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_7vRm4IXXVU
> 
> Sorry that there is no Dipper in this one, but this section of the story needed to be made, and it ended up being so long that I couldn't include any Dipper.


	18. Chapter 18

“Get-get away from me!” Dipper scrambles, blunt nails scraping against harsh floors, skin peeling in desperation as the brunet’s wide eyes glazed over in psychotic fear and trauma. Blood follows him as he retreats, a trail of physical pain that entices and scares me more than the realisation that I am, in fact, a monster.

And maybe what paralyses me, shakes me to my core, is that I’ve known all along; I’ve been playing some disturbed game, some rotten match. And I’m _winning._

My teeth – too sharp – glint. My eyes – too old – stream.

I’m laughing, and I don’t know why.

Memories flounce around the vast expanse of my twisted mind like a smug athlete – too skilled for me to catch them, too cocky for me to succeed.

But looking at the scene in front of me, with its broken body and closed walls, I’m bitter.

They put water with caesium and waited for them to touch.

Well, we have.

“You’re him, you’re him! You can’t be him, I-we… we beat you. We- “

I look at Dipper, who isn’t quite Dipper anymore, and my laughter slows to a halt in rhythm with his frantic ramblings.

I want to listen to him. I _have_ to listen to him.

“You can’t. You can’t!

“I am.”

Dipper’s shaky eyes ground mine with all the confidence of a cornered mouse, and I find myself grinning once again – but the crocodile isn’t me. The words aren’t my own – but with them come a familiar sense of arrogant superiority that flexes in my muscles and resides supreme over my very being – the memory of chaos engulfing me as I lurch forwards, almost praying to be able to console Dipper of his worries.

But I am lost before I even move.

Instead, it is Bill Cipher that kneels next to Dipper, that snarls in his ear, licking the sweat off his reddened flesh.

It is Bill Cipher that whispers in his ear.

“You lost, kid.”

It is Bill Cipher who settles his knee on Dipper’s thigh, tongue writhing along the foreign lips of William and tasting all the anxieties and lusts that plague them.

“How does it feel?” Cipher baits, eyes golden and way too calm, mouth finally but a closed smirk, “to have failed your family?”

Dipper yelped, breathy pleas lost as Cipher’s knee dug deep into the soft clad skin of Dipper’s leg, massaging the bone to detrimental effect.

 _Crack_.

“How does it feel for your incompetence to have doomed them all?”

_Crack._

Dipper’s eyes flutter open and close in rapid succession, eyebrows furrowed as he looks in tired confusion at his snapped wrist.

“And,” Cipher grabs Dipper’s chin, yanking the man’s head towards his eyes – brown on ominous yellow, “how does it feel to know that my tongue swirled against yours, that my saliva ravaged the confines of your virgin mouth. That I _own you_.”

“You don’t,” Dipper struggles, bleary from pain and delirious from fear, “you don’t own me, Cipher.”

 _Crack_.

A blow to the ribs sends Dipper tumbling over, blood blessing the corners of his mouth and falling to the plains of the floor.

“Oh, but I do. Humans prove such a slave to emotions – pitiful things, really – and, let’s be honest, you’re worse off than a lot of them, kid. Just look at the past couple of weeks.”

Dipper coughs, and Cipher takes it as his cue to keep monologuing.

“One peek at this fabulous meatsuit,” Cipher brags, twirling around with such stiff flexibility that his lack of humanity was appalling, “and you were practically drooling! Although I gotta say… for appearing revoltingly human, this form isn’t half bad. Definitely easy on the eyes, right Pine Tree?”

A slow, mad smile widens on the demon’s features.

“Or, well. Eye.”

 

xXx

 

“Something’s wrong,” Mabel announces, sitting up in the sunken sofa with such speed that the book she was reading launched itself across the room, hitting the wall and sliding down with remarkable emotion.

“What do you mean, sweetie?” Grunkle Stan asks, belly voluminous and beer in hand, voice gruff, however tainted with loving softness.

“Dipper. Something’s wrong with Dipper.”

“Dipper?” Ford questions, gun in hand – which isn’t unusual in itself – and beige coat sweeping the floors like the Herald of Hell, “what’s wrong with Dipper?”

Mabel swallows, the distant taste of coffee disgustingly present on her tongue, “I don’t know… exactly. But it has something to do with _him_ I’m sure of it.”

“Bill Cipher’s dead Mabel. We erased him inside Stanley’s mind. It can’t be him.”

The hard-set line that is Ford’s jaw clenched suddenly, and the trembling that would have been present in anyone else’s expression was absent – or hidden – from his face. Mabel’s familiar with the painting that graced his features.

It was is.

_Yellow irises burned inside Mabel’s skull, the usual timid determination that was present on Dipper’s face mutilated into an homage of the Cheshire Cat, tinted with the same inane madness that would befall any who underestimated the iron fist of the Red Queen._

“Believe me. It was him. I’d _never_ forget him, and I don’t lie. Ever.”

Stanford Pines falls into quiet contemplation, and Stanley Pines watches his brother, waiting. Waiting for the dam to fall, or flood. Anything that inspires violence. Anything to get Dipper back.

“What are we going to do?” Mabel asks, impatient.

Dipper’s in reach, why can’t they see that? And he’s stuck with that… that _monster!_

“Mabel, do you know where he is? What the place looks like?”

Her lips purse in thought, and the memory of a blond boy showing her a stone cage came forefront in her mind.

She nods.

“It could be possible to, maybe, tap into your memories and set a tracking spell on Dipper. It just so happens that I know a particularly potent one.”

Stan spoke up with a grunt and a cough.

“But what about the triangle guy?”

“Perhaps we could modify the RV, install a cell or something to hold him until we get back to Gravity Falls.”

Whilst they natter, Mabel can’t help but grin. Menacingly, or excitedly, one couldn’t know. But two things are sure in Mabel Pines’ mind.

One, that they were going to get Dipper back.

And two.

They were going to face Bill Cipher again.

For better or worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way - I know that previously I said that Will had a childhood, however in the last chapter I insinuated that he was the demon Beelzebub. I probably won't address it for ages so I'll do it here.
> 
> Basically, when Beelzebub said that he wanted to have a new life, so to speak, he changed it a couple of times. Demons - in this AU - can have families, and Beelzebub disguised himself as a child in a womb so that he may infiltrate a large demon family. However, it didn't go to plan, and he lost his memories - turning into Bill Cipher as we know him - or the precursor to the Bill we know now.
> 
> Bill Cipher, or William, both don't know their past. It will be regained in the future.


End file.
